Poetry of the Air
by Scribbler
Summary: A collection of loosely connected short ficlets about life, love, lust, and learning to cope with them. Possibly at the same time. While people shoot at you. 10: Aerith has a dream she can't tell Cloud about. Aerith/Zack
1. Keep Holding On

**Disclaimer****: **So very not mine.

**A/N****:** Okay so the brief was this: Pick a character, pairing, or fandom you like, turn on your music player and put it on random/shuffle, then write a ficlet related to or inspired by each song that plays. You only have the time frame of the song to finish; you start when the song starts, and stop when it's over. No lingering afterwards! At the moment I have eleven of these to share, but there will probably be more as they're bloody addictive.

**A/N Part Deux****:** Nobody is to laugh at the things I have on my music player. Title comes from the quote 'Music is the poetry of the air' by Richter. Also, these are NOT SONGFICS! The songs are just for inspiration.

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_**Poetry of the Air**_

© July/August 2008.

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**1. **_**Keep Holding On **_**– Avril Lavigne**

* * *

"Hey, Cloud. Hold on, buddy."

Zack clung desperately to the ledge with one hand. This was bad. This was _real_ bad.

"You need to lose some weight, Cloud. We're talking crash diet time – no carbs, lots of protein, all those fruit and vegetables you couldn't get for love nor money in Midgar. Fuck." He winced as the muscles in his arms screamed – one stretched beyond its limit, hand gripping the rocky outcropping, the other wrapped around Cloud's waist so that he dangled like a rag doll, nothing but a hundred feet of dead air between them and the ground.

Above, Zack could hear the troopers sent to catch them moving around. Fuckers. His side hurt where the first bullet had caught him – too distracted by Clouds murmurs and the scorching hope his friend might finally be waking up. No such luck, of course.

"They're getting closer, buddy. Gonna have to try something desperate. Then again," Zack grinned, "that's what we're good at, right? Now don't call me an idiot, or try to tell me this is stupid, because I'm fully aware of all that. I'm also aware that there's a cave just below us I'm going try and throw you into."

Cloud didn't answer.

Zack pressed the soles of his boots against the rock face, prayed to whoever was listening, and launched out into empty space.

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	2. When September Ends

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**2. **_**When September Ends**_** – Green Day**

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"Momma, why don't I have a daddy?"

Dala Strife has meaty hands, too square to ever be counted as feminine. They're hands that are good for milking cows, churning butter and pounding dough to make the lightest, airiest bread in the mountains. When she takes her wares to market people buy them eagerly, though they won't look her in the eye, and she's always conscious of how rough and red her hands are compared to the other women's – women who don't have to do anything but sew and crochet and please their husbands when they come home at night.

She lays her hands in her lap and regards her son. "You do have a daddy."

"Oh." Five year old Cloud frowns. "So why isn't he here?"

"He is here. In your heart."

"Huh?"

She taps the centre of his chest with a finger. "Those precious to us, who we don't see anymore, stay in our hearts. When we think about them, we call our most precious memories and thoughts from our hearts into our minds, and we put them back afterwards because that's the safest and securest place for them to be. It's like we keep an actual part of _them_ with us. So your daddy is in here."

"Oh. So I _do_ have one?"

"Yes."

"That's okay then." With that, he hops off the kitchen chair and goes out to play – on his own, as usual. Cloud doesn't care much about things as long as he understands them, and Dala has become good at giving satisfactory answers that don't actually answer his questions.

She regards her left middle finger and the complete lack of indentations from a wedding ring. Nibelheim is such a backwards place, where a woman can be both mother and father, and punch as well as a man to defend her children, but still be looked down on for not having a man of her own.

Sometimes Dala hates her telltale hands.

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	3. Call Me

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**3. **_**Call Me **_**– Blondie **

* * *

_Beep._

"Cloud, pick up. Pick _up_, Cloud. I know you're there. Look, just call home, okay? It's important."

_Beep_.

* * *

_Beep._

"Cloud, check your messages. You need to call me. It's _important_ Cloud."

_Beep_.

* * *

_Beep._

"Okay, if this is the way you want to play it, you can find out over the phone instead of in person. Cloud. Denzel is sick. Real sick. They're calling it Geostigma. I'm … really worried about him, but all he asks about is you and when you're coming home. So if you could take time out of your existential angst long enough to see a little boy who _adores_ you, and might be _dying_, then that'd be just peachy."

_Beep. _

_

* * *

_

Beep.

"Cloud, you idiot, where the hell are you?"

_Beep. _

_

* * *

_

Beep.

"Are you okay? Oh hell, Cloud, tell me you're okay. Call me, tell me … anything. Just call back. Let me hear you voice. Let me know you're not-"

_Beep. _

_

* * *

_

Beep.

"Cloud …"

_Beep. _

_

* * *

_

Beep.

"Cloud, please. I … I need you. Need you here. Denzel needs … Cloud, just come the hell home, okay? I don't care about anything else. Come home."

_Beep. _

* * *


	4. Our Lips Are Sealed

**A/N****:** By far the shortest one in the collection, this one. I think because I sent the first thirty seconds thinking 'Okay, what am I supposed to do with _that _in _this_ fandom?'

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**4. **_**Our lips Are Sealed **_**– Haylie and Hilary Duff**

* * *

It was kind of intoxicating. Cloud never thought he'd be one for secrecy and concealment, but apparently so. Of course, it helped that if they were found out he probably _would _be kicked out of the programme and never have a chance at a life within a hundred miles of Midgar, much less in SOLDIER.

Being stuffed into cupboards and dragged behind buildings when he wasn't expecting it would never stop surprising him though – and neither would the hungry glow in green eyes he'd previously only worshipped in press releases and official pictures, or pored over at the kitchen table with his mother washing the dishes behind him. He kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, possibly onto his head.

The creak of leather and hastily stilled breath when someone walked past was worth it though. Cloud could keep any secret for one more taste of this – and _him_.

* * *


	5. Goodbye

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**5. **_**Goodbye**_** – Night Ranger**

* * *

Cloud went up to the bluff on Fenrir, but he travelled the last part on foot. It seemed fitting somehow.

The Buster Sword had fallen over, digging a chunk out of the ground. He picked it up and stuck it back in, deeper this time, so that no curious animal could uproot it again. Then he reached into his pack and pulled out a bottle and three glasses.

The drink wasn't champagne; no way even Tifa's connection could get hold of that and ship it to Edge. Still, it fizzed pleasantly when he poured it and pushed one glass towards the sword, and set the other next to the yellowish flower he'd brought from the church. The petals had looked sad and wilted all the way here, but now they seemed invigorated, as though just being close to the sword infused the cut blossom with life.

"I'm not much good at speeches," Cloud mumbled, "but you both know that. So this is just … yeah. Just something to say …" He struggled to say the word, then gave up and just tipped back his glass, pouring his drink down his neck without coming up for air. When he was finished he wiped his mouth on the back of one bare hand. It'd felt wrong to wear his gloves for this.

Wind whistled through the empty materia slots on the sword, and rustled the leaves on the flower. If he listened closely he thought he could hear a familiar girlish giggle on the breeze.

Or maybe his mind wasn't just playing tricks. Wouldn't be the first time.

Sadness clutched at his heart. "I miss you ..."

The glass by the sword tipped over, soaking the earth around it.

Cloud jumped, and then smiled. "Should've known you wouldn't let me drown my sorrows alone like a sad old drunkard."

A warm chuckle mingled with the giggle, and this time Cloud was sure he heard them both clearly.

* * *


	6. Writing to Reach You

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**6. **_**Writing to Reach You**_** – Travis **

* * *

_Dear Tifa,_

_I'm having a wonderful time in Midgar_

Cloud looked down at what he'd written and scribbled it out. Sighing heavily, he balled up the paper and tossed it over his shoulder, pulled out another and began again.

_Dear Tifa, _

_Midgar is certainly busier than Nibelheim. It seems like there's someone from every continent here all smushed together so you're really aware that every person in the whole world is born with armpits._

Armpits? He was writing to his long-time crush and he was talking about _armpits_? He screwed up the paper and threw it over his shoulder too. This time, however, it was followed by a short yelp. Cloud turned to see Zack standing in the doorway, a hand over his eye.

"What's up, Spike? Turning paper into deadly weaponry?"

"Nothing much," Cloud replied, hastily hiding what he was doing. It wasn't going well anyway, just like it hadn't gone well the other days he'd tried writing home. Zack was a welcome distraction, like always. His smile chased away Cloud's frustration like sunlight cutting through his namesake. "Did you want something?"

"Just to see where you'd gone. Didn't see you in the mess hall at dinner. Figured you must be doing something important and came to interrupt and sidetrack you because I'm bored."

"You're always bored."

"And you love me for it."

Cloud grinned and clicked the lid on his pen. He could write to Tifa tomorrow.

* * *


	7. Call My Name and I’ll Be There

* * *

**7. **_**Call My Name (And I'll Be There)**_** – Michael Benghiat**

* * *

Cloud slammed against the rock-face, clutching his side as a couple more ribs snapped. Breathing was already a nightmare, as was seeing through the red of so many burst blood vessels. His collarbone ground unpleasantly on the left side and he was pretty sure the burning across his gut meant the monster's fangs had connected more than he'd hoped.

It lunged at him, all long claws and far too many teeth. He avoided it, gasping at the stabbing sensation deep in his chest. Just his luck to be out alone and land himself in something like this. He'd only been able to pull First Tsurugi when the giant thing jumped him and mangled Fenrir like cheap tinfoil.

He fell to one knee, digging his blade into the earth to stay upright. He couldn't fall down, or he'd stay down – permanently. It was kind of embarrassing, actually: him, the guy who'd defeated Sephiroth (not once but _twice_), laid low by a glorified gecko.

He pulled his protective arm away from his middle. The blood on his hand was so thick it was almost black and dripped from his gloves like melting wax. He brought his sword up, only to have it knocked from his grasp. He tumbled backwards, grunting and gasping, and had time to think, _This is it. Oh fuck, Tifa – _before a hot-breathed shadow fell across him.

And then there was someone standing over him and the monster was falling back, whimpering. Cloud heard the skitter of loose shale as it ran away, but that couldn't be right. Neither could the warm hand cupping his cheek, the smell of leather and sword polish cutting through the smell of his own blood, or the indigo eyes looking at him with concern through the red haze. There was someone there, he knew, because his phone was pulled from his pocket and pressed into his hand, but the person's face wavered like a heat haze and then vanished entirely.

Working mostly on instinct, Cloud raised the phone to his ear and pressed the button for the first programmed number. "Tifa," he croaked, coughing wetly.

"Cloud?" Panic infused her voice. She didn't bother asking whether he was all right, just went with a practical, "Where are you?"

"Not far … from Edge … 'bout eleven miles south …" He coughed again and groaned at the grinding in his chest. He healed faster than ordinary people, but the number of broken ribs probably outnumbered the ones still whole inside him. His lungs felt like they'd been caught in a steel bear trap.

"I'll be there. Don't worry. Just hang on, Cloud. I'm on my way."

Cloud let the phone drop and tried hard not to pass out. If that monster came back and he was unconscious, he was toast, but he couldn't keep his eyes open. "Fuck …"

And then the not-person presence was back, and though his eyelids were heavier than lead, he didn't need to see to know he'd be safe until Tifa got there.

_Never let you down before, have I? Well, apart from one time, and that really wasn't my fault…_

* * *


	8. Honour to Us All

* * *

**8. **_**Honour to Us All**_** – Mulan Soundtrack **

* * *

"No way."

"Yuffie, this is the legacy of generations of previous Wutaian royalty -"

"I don't care. I'm not doing it."

"It's tradition -"

"Fuck tradition." Yuffie folded her arms and brought her elbows in tight to her sides, crossing her legs in a way she knew angered her tutor.

The woman drew herself up tall and glared down at her pupil. "Such language is not at all becoming of a proper princess."

"Then fuck being a proper princess. I'll be a new kind – the kind who kicks ass and takes back her kingdom from usurpers instead of learning how to pour tea and please the assholes who _invaded _it, as though she thinks they're _meant to be here._"

"We must do what we must," her tutor said primly, smoothing down her skirt. "The situation demands decorum."

Yuffie glared. "The situation demands a wake-up call." That said, she jumped up, threw the contents of her teacup at the elaborate kimono on the hanger, and bolted from the room. "Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding!"

* * *


	9. Your Call

.

* * *

**9. **_**Your Call**_** – Secondhand Serenade **

* * *

"I'll call you back when I get the chance."

Aerith waited for Zack to call. She felt like a giant cliché, but Zack had the power of making even the worst clichés seem somehow romantic, or at least not as embarrassing as they should have been. She didn't have a cell phone – like she or her mother were that wealthy? – but they had a landline she helped pay for with the proceeds from her flowers.

She didn't get to the stage of staring at the receiver for some time. That was a step to far. Even so, it happened. Zack always kept his promises, and he had promised to call from Nibelheim. He would call. He _would_. He would call and tell her he was sorry, make up some lame excuse, and she'd forgive him because at least he'd kept his promise.

He didn't.

Then she told herself he would call to say he was on his way home. Surely the mission was over by now? She snickered to herself when she recalled how he hated cold weather. He was from a hot hometown, and had entertained her for hours with stories of his childhood, edged with a thin sheen of regret that he had run away to join Shinra without telling his parents.

"I'll go back someday, when I'm a big success," he promised. "That way, they'll have to admit I was right." Then he winked and gave a thumbs up – his own personal version of a royal seal, like they used to put on wax chunks on letters and important documents in olden days.

Zack promised to go home. He never did. He promised to come back to her. He never did. And he promised to call. But he never did.

Zack didn't keep a lot of his promises, but for some reason even the shattered remains of those he broke didn't make her break hers in return.

"I'll never forget you."

* * *

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	10. You'll Never Be Alone

.

* * *

**10. **_**You'll Never Be Alone**_** – Anastasia **

* * *

Cloud looked across at Aerith and frowned. He frowned a lot, but this one had a different slant to it. "Are you … all right?" he asked, as if unsure how to phrase that kind of question.

Aerith nodded dumbly. She played with the cup in her hands, twisting it around and around. The liquid inside stayed stationary, like the eye of a storm. Breakfast was campfire coffee. She usually hated coffee.

"You seemed distracted."

She smiled at him and took a sip, more to cover her mouth than because she was thirsty.

Usually Cloud would have left it at that. He wasn't heartless, but feelings didn't come easily to him; talking about them even less so. This morning was different. He squinted suspiciously at her. "Did you … sleep okay?"

She shrugged again.

"Are you … do you feel sick?"

She shook her head.

He stared so hard she thought her hair might set on fire. "Something is wrong," he said at last. "Tell me what it is." No asking this time, just an order. Cloud needed something he could fix. He was a doer; staying still grated on him. If he stayed still too long, his mind started to play tricks on him. He had told her that once, in a quiet moment when it had been just the two of them. She had taken his hand and told him to let it play its tricks, but he had pulled away with a grimace and she'd known he wouldn't. Maybe Tifa would have given different – better – advice. She knew Cloud better than Aerith did, after all.

"I'm fine," she replied, taking another sip.

His frown turned into a scowl. She couldn't help that. He didn't remember – not yet. She couldn't tell him the dream she'd had last night, about a man with black hair and a smirk that made her knees turn to water; the man who had owned Cloud's sword previously and died getting him to Midgar. Cloud had to come to those important realisations on his own. Until then, no matter how much he badgered, she would keep her dreams, her memories and her secret grief to herself.

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End file.
